Those Who Are Left Behind
by The Sun Also Rises
Summary: Kartik's mother grieves after her son's untimely death. While visiting his grave, she runs into a certain redhead.


**Um plotless, but the idea of Kartik's mother grieving was too tragic not to write. Review please. I own NOTHING!!!**

There was something in the way that he came to my door that instantly told me something was terribly wrong. Perhaps it was in his gait or countenance; or maybe it was in his darkened eyes. Whatever it was, it sent chills down my spine and made me tremble as my hand struggled to open the door latch.

I had seen this man only three times before: once when he came for my oldest son, Amar, and then again when he came for my little one, my baby Kartik. They had both been so young! Many sleepless nights have I spent torturing myself, wondering if sending them to the Rakshana had been the right choice. I had last seen the man a year ago when he had come to tell me that my Amar was dead.

As I swung wide open the door, I could not help but shudder at the thought of what ill news he bore me now. I balled my hands into fists as I bade him enter.

Standing on my threshold, the man was a somewhat imposing figure. He was English with a touch of Irish blood in him and he had shifty brown eyes and greasy dark hair. I nodded politely to him and led him over to my sitting room. He sat down on my couch and gratefully accepted the cup of tea I offered him.

I noticed that he looked as if he had aged fifteen years in a short amount of time. But his eyes…those were the most changed. They were even darker than before, bloodshot and constantly darting around the corners of the room, as if in fear of some horrid, nameless thing. I waited patiently for him to begin his message, for, by prior experience, I knew that rushing him would do no good.

As he swallowed the last of his tea, he looked me in the eye and asked, "Where is your husband?"

I straightened myself and raised my head to meet his. "He is dead," I softly replied.

"I am sorry," he murmured.

"Are you, Fowlson?" I retorted with perhaps a bit too much bite.

He sighed. "I have some bad news for you."

I felt as if every fiber of my being was crumpling into nothing. So it was about Kartik. But it would not do to cry shamelessly about it, so I raised my head a little higher. "What has happened to him?" I asked evenly.

Fowlson looked out the nearby window down at some children playing in the street. "Dead," he said softly.

I bit my lip until I draw blood. "How? When?" I managed to croak out.

And what came next from Fowlson's mouth was an utter surprise to me. He wove an incredible tale of magic and intrigue and power. He told me of a place called the Realms and of their priestess, a young English girl named Gemma Doyle, the girl my son Kartik died to save. When Fowlson concluded his story, I sat in shock. A part of me wanted to scream for the authorities to take this crazy man away so that I should never have to lay eyes upon him again. Yet another part of me, my heart, knew that he spoke the truth.

I breathed deeply. My son, my last child gone in the blink of an eye. I tried to gather my thoughts enough to form a coherent response.

In an unusual act of sympathy, Fowlson walked over to my seat and laid his hand on my shoulder. I allowed a few diamond-like tears to escape from my eyes as I thought of Kartik as I remembered him, a bright, innocent little boy, full of boyish charm and naivety.

"He's buried in England," Fowlson said in his coarse Cockney accent. "The brothers don' know, but I've put aside a little money for you to take the trip. Pr'aps you'd like to see the place."

I looked up at Fowlson in wonder. Never in all my years of acquaintance with him had I ever seen him display any more emotion than a cow. And yet, there he was offering to pay for my fare to England. I shoved away an onslaught of tears. If Fowlson's giving me money wasn't a sign, then nothing was. I decided that if the gods had willed such a skin flint into this act of generosity, there was a reason for me to take that journey.

I stood by a graveyard near an English finishing school called Spence. This place was where my son had spent his final days. This place was where he was buried. This place was where I would spend the day grieving for my baby boy.

The ancient-looking gate to the cemetery creaked loudly as I opened it. I trod gently over the graves and made not a sound lest I disturb the dead. Rows and rows I passed in my search for his marker.

After roughly twenty minutes, I found what I had been looking for. There, in a secluded corner under a monstrous oak tree, lay my son's grave. For a moment I stood completely still, unable to make my limbs move any closer. And then, all at once, I found myself throwing my body over the patch of earth and weeping uncontrollably. I wept for my son and I wept for his fate; but mostly I wept for all those years lost, all those times I could have spent with him, all the laughter and tears we could have shared. I don't know exactly how long I remained there, but it must have been at least two hours for, when I looked up, the sun was already high in the sky.

A twig snapped and I whirled around, ready to scream at anyone who would approach me in my wounded state. For a moment, there was no one. And then I saw her. Gemma Doyle, for, after Fowlson's description of her, there was no doubt in my mind that it was she. I quickly wiped my face and smoothed my hair away from my eyes. I noticed that she carried a single red rose.

"You are his mother," she stated simply.

I nodded.

"Fowlson told me you would be here. I have wanted to meet you for a while."

"You are Gemma, then?" I asked rhetorically.

She nodded. "I suppose that Fowlson has explained everything to you."

It was my turn to nod. "Yes, he has explained."

She moved towards the grave and placed her rose down on the ground. "This isn't really his grave," she murmured softly.

My eyes widened and tears once again threatened to engulf me. "Did they never recover his body," I asked, praying that her answer would allow me to keep that little plot of earth as his resting place.

She shook her head.

I breathed in a shaky breath and a strange desire to know what I had missed overcame me. "Fowlson told me that you and he were close. What was he like?" I murmured.

"Kartik?" she smiled. "He was so many things. Quiet and insecure at times and confident at others. Always trying to help me even when I thought I could handle things on my own. He was my best friend," she said with a sob. And she too fell to the ground and began to weep.

Life is cruel- that much I have learned. It gives you the moon and then yanks it back on a whim. Two wonderful boys was I given. The same were abruptly taken from me. What more can life do to me that it has not already done? I have lived through pain untold and survived. I feel now that is a pity that I did not die before my boys. Then I would not have to feel so keenly the heartache I feel now.

As I walked away from the graveyard that day, I looked over my shoulder and saw Gemma still stting upon the wet grass, talking in gay tones to one who would never answer her again.

While hailing a cab into London, I was struck with the thought that, for those passed from this world, it is over. The real struggle is for those who they have left behind.

**So, any thoughts? I'd LOVE a review!**


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